


I Like You Better Wild

by Synekdokee



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Android Hank, Bottom Connor, Comeplay, Creampie, Crying During Sex, M/M, Overstimulation, PWP, Praise Kink, Smut, a bit of a woobie Connor, just absolute porn, masseur AU, questionable work ethics, reverse!au - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 12:59:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16833103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synekdokee/pseuds/Synekdokee
Summary: “I can recommend a good masseur for you, it’ll help with the strain put on by the PT,” his doctor had said. “He’s an android, but he’s one of the best in the field. Just don’t be put off by his bedside manner.”What he hadn’t said was “this masseur looks like he walked out of your wet dreams, so have fun lying naked under a sheet in front of him.”





	I Like You Better Wild

**Author's Note:**

> Just absolutely self-indulgent smut, and possibly the woobiest Connor I will ever write.

Connor had always resigned himself to the possibility of getting injured in the line of duty. It was the reality of his profession, something every cop had to make peace with sooner or later.

The thing was he’d expected it to be something a little bit more heroic. Getting shot at, maybe. Hell, getting stabbed and stoically pretending he was fine. Something he could get a commendation for.

Throwing out his back while wrestling a service station robber while on his lunch break? Not something to dazzle the dates with.

Not that he had any. The only thing it had earned him was a few pats on the back and a confinement to desk duty, and department-funded physical therapy.

“I can recommend a good masseur for you, it’ll help with the strain put on by the PT,” his doctor had said. “He’s an android, but he’s one of the best in the field. Just don’t be put off by his bedside manner.”

What he hadn’t said was "this masseur looks like he walked out of your wet dreams, so have fun lying naked under a sheet in front of him.”

When the android had greeted Connor in the waiting area, calling his name in a low, gravelly voice while taking Connor’s hand in one massive paw, Connor had nearly turned tail and ran. Problem was running was an issue these days, and so he went meekly, undressing behind a screen and wrapping the massage sheet around himself.

So here he was. “Just call me Hank”, the hot therapeutic masseur android talking to him about his patient history and injury while Connor perches on the edge of the padded massage table, dangling his legs like a nervous five year old.

“I guess you can consider yourself lucky,” Hank says, flipping through his PT papers, the LED on his forehead spinning yellow. ”I’ve treated some cops who’ve had far worse injuries. And far stupider ones.”

Connor hums, hands folded neatly in his lap as he tries not to stare too obviously. It’s like a shitty cosmic joke - _Hey Connor, I know it’s been years since you’ve been laid, here’s a guy who’s exactly your type, and by the way, it’d possibly be unethical and certainly highly unprofessional if you fucked!_

Hank puts the file away and rolls his sleeves up, revealing thick, toned forearms. He ties up his silver hair, exposing the column of his throat. Connor swallows, turning to stare at a wall. Why the fuck had they designed androids like that? What purpose did it serve to create androids that looked like they belonged in the centerfold of Big Bears Monthly?

“Alright, why don’t you lie down on your front,” Hank instructs, tone no-nonsense. He holds up the sheet, draping it over Connor to help him retain his modesty.

He feels unpleasantly vulnerable like this, his back exposed, unable to see what’s going on as his face pokes out of the ridiculous hole in the table. Physical therapy is one thing - it’s proactive, sometimes challenging. Lying prone on a table while a stranger puts his mitts all over him is not within his comfort zone.

”Alright, let’s see how knotted up you are,” Hank says lightly, and Connor hears a bottle being opened. He smells lavender, and then Hank’s footsteps come closer.

”The oil is warmed up, shouldn’t feel cold. I’m going to start with your neck, just try to relax.”

The voice certainly is calming, Connor thinks, closing his eyes. He twitches a little as Hank lays two large palms on his neck, firmly pressing as he drags them over his muscles.

It’s not bad. It’s quite nice, in fact. Very nice. Hank is methodical, moving to his shoulders, then down his back. Connor begins to relax, letting out a long breath as he goes limp on the table. It’s not just the capable technique that feels good - it’s been a long time since Connor has had another hu- person’s hands on him, and though he wouldn’t be caught dead admitting it, the faux intimacy makes something pleasant and comforting pool in his gut.

Hank keeps a running commentary, cataloguing Connor’s muscles and the extent of the damage. Most of it hardly registers to Connor, beyond the lull of Hank’s voice, low and gravelly, filling the room.

It takes a while for him to catch on to the fact that his touch-starved body is reading a little too much into his masseur’s deft hands going over every inch of him. It feels so good, and Connor can’t stop thinking about how Hank looks, big and built in a way that makes it clear he could pin Connor down, android or not, or how his voice would sound murmuring obscenities in Connor’s ear.

”You clearly favour your left side,” Hank says, tone pitched low and sending a pleasant flutter down Connor’s spine.

”Uhhu,” Connor says, swallowing thickly as Hank moves to knead at his lower back. It feels - amazing, and Hank’s hands are so close to the slope of his ass, and Connor’s getting _hard_.

He wants to cry. This can’t fucking be happening, he can’t actually be this _pathetic_. But apparently he is, lonely and over-worked with a fucked-up back at 30, getting turned on from getting a massage from an android.

Hank presses both palms down, flat along Connor’s skin, and Connor’s hips sink into the padded table. The whine that escapes him is mortifying, but Hank seems to read it for discomfort.

”You gotta relax, kid,” he reproachfully, sliding his hands up Connor’s back. Connor can only let out a vague noise of acquiescence, and Hank clucks his tongue.

”Don’t worry, I’ll get you loosened up,” he promises, and Connor is on the verge of sobbing from misery. He grinds his teeth and tries to not tense up, but he can’t quite stifle the soft breathy sounds occasionally pushing their way out of his mouth. His dick is trapped under him, hard and aching, and it’s painful and fucked up.

Eventually the torture ends. Hank holds the sheet up so Connor can sit, and Connor grabs it and bundles it in his lap.

”Can- can you give me a moment,” he says, face burning.

”Are you alright?” Hank asks, concerned, LED flashing red. He places a hand on Connor’s bare shoulder, and Connor _shivers_. ”I didn’t go too hard on you?”

”No, uh. It’s not that. Just.” He takes a deep breath. ”This is really humiliating, I promise I’m not like, some kind of a creep-”

Hank glances at his lap, and nods, unfazed.

”Don’t worry about it, human bodies are strange,” he says with a bland smile. ”Just come to the reception when you’re ready.”

With Hank and his ridiculously appealing voice gone, it’s easier to get his arousal to cool down. The embarrassment lingers, but he’ll have to live with it.

Connor considers not going again. But he has the referral, and his back has felt much better after the first session, and he’s getting fed up with desk duty.

The routine is the same. Hank greets him in the waiting area, still as stupidly hot as ever in his sweats, with his silver beard and his clear blue eyes and his hair tied up, and Connor avoids looking him in the eye. He undresses while Hank asks him about his week, about physical therapy and the progress made. Connor gives short answers as he climbs onto the table and tries not to jump when Hank rests a palm over his spine as he adjusts the sheet over his exposed backside.

The whole session is torture. Connor tries to keep his stupid, desperate body in control, tries not to moan like a bitch in heat.

Hank kneads at the knots and strains, acting so oblivious Connor wonders if he disables his sensors for the sessions.

Hank digs an elbow into a large muscle in Connor’s back and makes a disapproving noise. ”You’re not supposed to be working out yet,” he chides, and Connor whips his head up to stare at him over his shoulder.

”How did you-”

Hank grunts, grabbing Connor’s neck gently and pushing him back down firmly. The oddly dominating gesture is like a punch to the gut, and Connor lets out a sigh, his dick twitching. He thinks Hank freezes for a moment before continuing, and Connor feels a blush stain his neck and face, surely visible to Hank too.

”You’re not the first bull-headed client I’ve had. Stop going to the gym or you’ll worsen the injury,” Hank says as though nothing is wrong, dragging his hands down with a heavy pressure until they rest just over the swell of Connor’s ass. Connor holds his breath, and then whimpers when Hank’s thumbs dig in.

Connor draws in a breath, trying to force his voice to normal. ”I miss it,” he says, and Hank lets out a soft laugh. It’s one of the nicest sounds Connor has heard in months.

”Maybe next time you’ll think twice before you go wrestling crooks then,” Hank says dryly. He rubs at Conor’s lower back, and Connor lets out a muffled _mewl_.

“Sensitive?” Hank asks, pausing his movements for a moment, his large hands just resting there over the dip of Connor’s spine. It makes Connor think of all sorts of filthy things, and he holds his breath, trying to clear his head.

Hank digs his thumbs into the swell of muscle on either side of the well of Connor’s spine, and it punches a groan out of Connor.

”There you go,” Hank rumbles, massaging the knots open. Connor lets out a blissed-out sound, arching a little bit.

”You’re pretty badly jammed down here. If you spend a lot of time at your desk, you might want to adjust your chair.” His calm tone is at odds with the way he keeps touching the rise of Connor’s ass, skirting the edge of what’s appropriate. It throws Connor’s head for a loop, dizzy with emotional whiplash.

”Too much paperwork;” Connor stutters out. “At least I get paid overtime.”

“Aren’t you a bit young to spend all your time a by a computer,” Hank asks, his arm brushing over Connor’s sheet-covered buttock as he burrows in with his elbow again. Connor barely realises they’re veered off topic of what’s relevant to his injuries.

”In this profession personal life is more of a concept,” Connor manages to breathe out, proud that not a single moan breaks his sentence.

Hank just grunts, and Connor’s left with the impression that he’s managed to let him down somehow.

When their session ends Connor sits, flushed and breathless and hunched over the sheet folded over his lap.

”I’ll be outside,” Hank says, impassive, and Connor casts him a grateful look.

When Connor gets home he gets himself off, stripping his cock furiously, the smell of lavender still lingering on his skin as he thinks about Hank’s hands, his voice, the whole solid form of him and how nice his touch is. He comes with a desperate whine, bucking his hips into his hand. The guilt that descends after is _crushing_.

It continues like that; Hank politely ignoring Connor’s neediness, and Connor trying desperately to control his body, but ending every session with an raging hard-on. Afterwards during billing procedures Hank seems to make a point of not making things awkward, engaging Connor in polite small talk - though it usually collapses under the weight of Connor’s sad, work-centered life.

”I’m so sorry about this,” Connor says one day, voice a little anguished. ”I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. I mean, I don’t even know if you guys - I guess it’s just been a really long time since-” he snaps his mouth shut, and blushes furiously. There’s an unusually soft expression on Hank’s face, and Connor can’t look away.

”It’s fine,” Hank says reassuringly. ”Trust me, this isn’t the weirdest thing a human has done here,” he chuckles, and Connor swallows, turning his gaze down. The bar is clearly set low, and it doesn’t make him feel much better.

“But do yourself a favour and go out this weekend, have some fun, maybe go home with someone,” Hank adds.

Connor stares at him, mouth parted. “Isn’t this a little above your paygrade? Or do you moonlight as a therapist,” he says, a little more hostile than he intends.

Hank merely levels him a look, not even having the decency to pretend to be chastised. “Look, I’m well aware of mammalian hang-ups,” he says sardonically. “But it’s becoming increasingly obvious to me that you don’t have much of a life outside your job. I’m just saying, if you let out some steam, maybe you wouldn’t be so wound up from getting a massage from an _android_ ,” he says gruffly, raising an eyebrow. Connor doesn’t miss the weight on the final word, and wonders if Hank thinks Connor is some sort of a weird fetishist after all.

An awkward silence follows. “I’ll be outside,” Hank says eventually, leaving Connor alone to wonder if there’s an appropriate time to tell your massage therapist you want to jump his bones, regardless of his bionic status.

“I’m sorry if I crossed a line last time,” Hank says a week later. Connor’s really starting to wish he’d save these conversations for when Connor’s wearing clothes.

“It’s fine. You weren’t wrong,” he admits, pulling his shirt over his head and folding it. “Not that I followed your advice. Worked all weekend. Not that I’m much good at socialising anyway.”

There’s a silence, and when he steps out from behind the screen there’s no sheet waiting to cover him. Instead Hank’s staring at him with a frown on his face

Connor shifts, reaching for the sheet on the table, and Hank jolts.

“Shit, sorry,” he grunts, covering Connor up. There’s a blue tinge on his cheeks, an android equivalent of a blush, Connor realises with a start. It’s a nice change, Connor thinks. It also looks very nice on him.

The session feels different. Connor’s not sure if he’s imagining things, but Hank seems to be spending more time around his lower back. There are moments when his touches are lighter, not quite caresses, but certainly not firm enough to count as massaging.

Hank’s hand brushes across the dip of his tail bone, and the noise Connor makes, uncontrolled and involuntary, makes his gut clench with humiliation. He screws his eyes shut when Hank’s hands pause, and for a moment he’s sure this is it, Hank’s had enough, he’s about to get kicked out and Hank will call his PT and tell him what a perverted little creep Connor is-

Hank moves again, trailing his hands up to curl around Connor’s shoulders, thumbs rubbing circles into his shoulder blades. Connor thinks he can hear Hank’s breathing a little heavier than usual (and he must be delirious, why would an android do that), and he swallows hard around a soft whimper. He’s so hard it hurts, and even when Hank goes back to properly massaging him, it won’t let up. Hank leans close for just a second to use his elbow, and Connor can feel his breath on his skin, cool instead of hot like a human’s. It all becomes too much, and he lets out a choked moan, his hips bucking against the table, searching for friction.

Humiliation floods him, awful and hot. He’s never lost control like this, always manages himself perfectly, at work and in private. Never gives an inch that isn’t strictly necessary. And now the weekly illusion of affection is unraveling him.

 _Pathetic_ , he thinks, tears stinging his eyes.

“It’s okay, Connor,” Hank hums, one hand drawing a reassuring line down his back. “Just relax, it’s fine, I’ll take care of it,” he says, voice calm and comforting, and before Connor’s brain can truly register the words, Hank has moved to massage his thighs.

They never do this. Connor’s legs are just fine, they don’t need massaging, but when Hank curls both hands around his thigh, digging his fingers in under the sheet still covering his lower half, Connor just lays there, his thoughts blanking out.

One of Hank’s large hands climbs up his thigh, and Connor holds his breath, feeling oddly removed from his body. Hank’s touch is warmer than a human’s, solid, and it inches higher, agonisingly slow. Connor wants to say something, to ask for more, but he can’t bring himself to break this spell. He’s still convinced this is a misunderstanding, that he’s reading too much into this, that Hank’s just feeling the muscle. And then the side of Hank’s hand brushes against his balls, and everything comes to a stop.

Connor stares down at the floor beneath him, pulse pounding, arousal throbbing through his veins. He feels hot all over, waiting for Hank to apologise, to draw his hand back and cut the session short.

Connor lets out a shuddering breath and bites his lip. Hoping this isn’t a mistake, he moves his left leg, trembling, pulling it up a little. Widening the space between his thighs.

He hears Hank breathe in and out, measured, and then a thumb rubs across his balls, sliding to press against his perineum. It’s too much, Connor can’t hold himself together anymore, and he lets out a sob, lifting his head to lay it over his folded arms.

Hank is silent, but he places a steadying palm on the small of Connor’s back as he works a hand under his hips. Connor keeps his eyes closed and cants his hips, giving Hank more room.

Deft fingers trace along his aching cock, drawing a choked groan from him. It’s a relief to not hold back anymore, even if he still feels ashamed, and scared that he’s somehow making Hank do this, or equally nauseating, that it’s pity, that Hank just feels so bad for him that he’s doing this.

Hank curls his fingers around him, stroking him slowly, and Connor whimpers, digging his teeth into his own wrist.

“That’s it,” Hank murmurs, petting his back, and Connor _quivers_. “It’s okay, let it out.”

“I- I can’t, Hank, please,” Connor cries, arching his back to press into Hank’s touch.

Hank laughs, low and gravelly, the hand on Connor’s back sliding to his ass, one finger dipping just between his cheeks, teasing. Connor whines, trying to lift his hips further, pulling one knee under himself to try to lift his ass up.

“Don’t strain yourself,” Hank says disapprovingly. The hand around his dick withdraws, leaving Connor whining, and then the bed shudders, and Connor has to crane his neck to look back.

“Wha?” He says blearily, staring wide eyed as Hank climbs up to straddle his thigh.

Hank holds his gaze as he grips Connor’s cheeks in two hands, and when Connor does nothing but lick his lips, Hank gives a small nod. He parts Connor’s buttocks, exposing his hole to the cool air, and Connor buries his face in his arms again.

Hank’s breathing is heavy, Connor can hear it clearly, and it sends a jolt of arousal through him. Is Hank turned on too? Does he want this as much as Connor does? He doesn’t know a damn thing about android sexual physiology, but the thought that this might be more than pity sends comforting warmth coursing through him.

Two thumbs press against his hole, spreading him open. Connor grips the padding, white knuckled as he lets out a keening noise. Hank’s thumb, still slick from oil, dips inside him, testing. Connor nearly bucks them both off the table, breath coming in in rushed, erratic pants.

“Hey, easy, you’re doing good,” Hank cooes. Connor feels him shift, and suddenly there’s a weight over his back, the swell of Hank’s stomach fitting perfectly against the curve of his back, his broad chest against Connor’s shoulders. “Feel that?” Hank murmurs, and something brushes against Connor’s ass, hard and large even through the loose pants Hank’s wearing. Connor sobs, trying to press up against it.

“You’ve got me so hard,” Hank says, voice low against Connor’s ear. “Let me take care of you.”

Connor nods, frantic, trying to reach behind and between them to shove off the sheet now bunched over his thighs.

“Easy,” Hank says, like Connor’s an animal to be soothed.

“I’m sorry,” Connor sobs, and he feels so _good_ pressed into the table by Hank’s bulk, Hank’s heat surrounding him everywhere.

“What do you want?” Hank asks, one hand stroking along Connor’s ribs, fingers tracking the ripple of them. “I need you to say it for me.”

“Anything, I want-” He chokes off, voice cracking with need. “I want, I want you in me, please,” he moans, turning his head to the side.

Hank leans over him, hushing him, lips brushing over Connor’s cheek, his beard scraping over his skin. Only then Connor realises his face is wet. He can’t stop it, overwhelmed by the feeling of Hank against his back, his hard cock pressed against the cleft of his ass, caged in by his strong arms. It’s too much at once, and still not enough.

He makes a sound of complaint when Hank sits up, leaving his body cold. He feels Hank shift, and then the click of a bottle being opened, and then Hank’s touch is back. Something slides against the crease of his thigh, against the swell of his ass, blunt and slick, and when it hits Connor what it is he nearly comes on the spot.

“Yes, yes, _please_ ,” he whines, struggling to spread his thighs wider. He’d feel ashamed of his own eagerness, of how desperate he’s coming off, but it doesn’t matter now. The point of no return was passed a long time ago.

Hank leans over him again, propped up on one arm as he noses behind the curve of his ear. “Take it easy now,” he murmurs, and Connor jumps when he feels two thick fingers prod at his hole, slick with oil. Hank’s cock is an insistent weight against his thigh, making Connor’s mouth water at the thought of it.

He gasps a ragged breath when the fingers press inside him, and despite the tension coiled tight in him it’s easy to give in to it.

“That’s it, that’s my good boy,” Hank croons, and Connor wants to please him, wants to give Hank _everything_. He pulls his elbows under him, shoulders up and head hanging down as he pants, body trembling while Hank fingers him open, fucking him slowly.

“So fucking eager for it, aren’t you?” Hank says, amusement clear in his tone. Connor can only nod and let out a soft, vulnerable sound.

“So good for me,” Hank adds, pressing a kiss to Connor’s flushed neck.

The fingers pull out, and Hank shifts, shuffling up a little to make up for the difference in their heights. Connor hangs on to the edge of the table, hard enough to hurt, staring wide eyed at the wall as he waits, counting seconds.

The tip of Hank’s cock presses against his slick hole, and Connor has a moment of panic because Hank feels _huge_ and there’s no way it’s gonna fit, no fucking way, not for all the massage oil in the world.

“You gotta relax,” Hank coaxes him, one hand on his hip. “I’ll make you feel so good, baby.”

Connor shivers at the term of endearment, and takes a deep breath, letting it out, bearing down.

Hank’s cock slides inside, splitting him wide open, and Connor wails, broken and hoarse.

Hank remains still, petting his side and nuzzling at his hair, muttering something Connor can’t make out.

“Connor, you with me?” Hank asks, tone hard, hand snaking around Connor’s shoulder to tip his head to the side as Hank leans over to look at him. “Don’t space out on me.”

“I’m- yes, I’m here,” Connor slurs, so lust-addled it’s hard to concentrate. Hank chuckles, a low, dark sound. He presses two fingers to Connor’s mouth, teasing at his bitten lips until Connor parts them obediently.

“Such a good boy,” Hank says, pleased, and with a hitch of his hips he buries himself to the hilt. Connor feels impossibly full, swears he can feel Hank in his _gut_. Hank’s hips press against Connor’s ass, belly flush against his back, sliding his fingers over Connor’s tongue simultaneously.

Connor’s cock throbs, so hard he aches with it, and when Hank begins to move, slow, shallow strokes, he loses the ability to think. All he can do is pant around Hank’s fingers, spit dripping down his chin as he takes what Hank chooses to give him, mindless with pleasure.

Connor is pinned in place, unable to move, blissfully at Hank’s mercy. He surrenders to it, all shreds of shame now gone, chased away by Hank’s soft words of praise and encouragement. They blend together, just a litany of approval and adoration making him feel so good, high on lust. He sucks on Hank’s fingers hungrily, soft little pants spilling from his lips.

“Listen to you, all those pretty little sounds,” Hank says, tone full of approval that warms Connor to the core. Hank shifts, pulling his hips back, withdrawing almost completely, and when he slides back in the head of his cock drags over Connor’s prostate, drawing a broken scream from him. Hank laughs, low and _possessive_ , and sets up a rhythm, fucking Connor over and over until Connor’s reduced into a needy mess, shoulders trembling as his orgasm builds.

“Come on, Connor, come for me baby,” Hank growls, and the demanding tone paired with the relentless pressure on his prostate is what shoves him over the edge. He comes with a full-body shudder, whining around Hank’s fingers, drooling down Hank’s hand as his hips jerk wildly, come spreading under his belly.

He collapses onto the table, a fucked-out mess. Hank pulls his hand away, pressing a kiss to Connor’s temple, rubbing his beard against his flushed skin.

“Such a good boy,” he says approvingly, and then he thrusts his hips, and Connor can’t hold back the sob, trying to jerk his hips away.

“T-too much,,” he whimpers, but Hank pets his hair, humming softly.

“You can take it, you know you can,” he says, fucking Connor with a languid pace. Connor shakes and nods, his wet lashes fluttering against his cheeks.

It’s so good he can barely breathe, the drag of Hank’s cock inside him, stretching him, the slide of it easy now that Connor’s gone loose, the most relaxed he’s been in a long time. He closes his eyes and loses himself in the sensations of Hank fucking him slow, a hand caressing him, Hank’s body keeping Connor warm and safe.

He loses track of time. He doesn’t know how long Hank’s been using him, and he doesn’t want it to end, would like to stay like this, taken by Hank over and over again. He’s hard still, but his arousal is no longer an insistent need, just a low, pleasant thrum in his gut.

He groans when Hank moves to sit up, pressing both palms to the small of Connor’s back to brace himself as he picks up his pace, pinning Connor down as he slams into him with a bruising force. Suddenly Hank grows tense, grinding his hips against Connor, buried balls deep. He comes with a grunt, and Connor can _feel_ him, can feel his cock twitch and the flood of synthetic semen. He keens brokenly, his own cock jerking where it lies under him in the mess of his own come.

Hank stills above him, and Connor swears he can hear his pump regulator beat overtime. Finally he lets out a shuddering, mechanical trill and pulls away, withdrawing slowly.

There’s a flood of come that follows, dripping out of Connor’s fucked-open hole, down his balls and onto the table. It makes him feel obscene, exposed and on display.

“Look at you,” Hank says, tone deeply satisfied as he presses a finger inside Connor, coaxing more come out of him. Connor whimpers, sore and used up, and Hank hums, sliding off the table.

“Come here,” he says gently, gathering Connor in his arms like he weighs less than a ragdoll. Connor’s too weak to resist, not that he wants to. He sits on the edge, come still leaking out of him, wedged against Hank’s broad chest. He watches in a daze as Hank wraps his hand around his come-stained dick and begins stroking, teasing the tip. It’s the hottest thing Connor has seen, the way Hank’s large palm envelopes him, the tip of his flushed cock peeking out with every down-stroke.

He buries his face against Hank’s neck, panting against his skin, breathing in the scent of oils and something artificial but no less pleasant.

“You did so well,” Hank praises him, holding him tight. “Feels better now, doesn’t it? You gotta learn to let go, baby,” he says, and Connor nods, mouthing at his throat.

His second orgasm is less intense, his pleasure cresting and ebbing as he comes over Hank’s hand, shivering, little “ah, ah” sounds bursting from his tongue. Hank holds him through it, lips pressed against his temple, his presence reassuring and calming.

They stay that way for a while, Connor’s pulse slowing down from its hurried fluttering, his breathing evening out. Eventually Hank leans away, holding Connor steady as he steps back to look at him. To scan him, Connor realises, and his afterglow is shattered by doubt. Maybe Hank was just fulfilling a function, doing what he felt was necessary to wind Connor down. Maybe he doesn’t want Connor at all, just saw him as a task-

“I can practically hear you thinking,” Hank says, giving him a wry smile. “Clearly next time I’ll have to do a more thorough job.”

Connor’s thoughts grind to a halt.

“Next time?” He asks, voice hoarse from sex.

Hank gives him an unimpressed look. “Yes, next time. And it should be at your place - highly unprofessional of me to engage in happy endings at my place of work.”

It startles a hysterical laugh out of Connor, and he leans forward until his brow is pressed against Hank’s sternum, his shoulders hitching as he tries to get a grip on his nerves.

Hank rests a hand on the curve of his spine, and sighs.

“Fucking humans.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on:  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/SynTurtle)  
> [Tumblr.](http://roomfullofcunts.tumblr.com/)  
> 


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